


Have You Ever Been a Beast?

by Omorka



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nudity, Other, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dismaying full-moon change comes over one of the Monkees.  The others must placate the powers that rule his transformation, avoid their own mortal dangers, and keep the band running despite the supernatural goings-on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have You Ever Been a Beast?

**Author's Note:**

> Contains dick jokes, comic nudity, and groping, although no explicit sexual content.

His eyes flew open as his bones began to forget their proper shape and remember another one.

_No,_ he thought to himself, screwing his eyelids closed again in concentration. _No, no, no, not here, not now, not again!_

No good. He could feel his calves shortening, his feet lengthening, the beginnings of coarse fur shoving its way through his skin like a thousand needles. He groaned into his pillow and hoped it wouldn’t wake his roommate.

Stumbling out of bed, he raised his hands to his ears, feeling them lengthen to tufted points. The pressure in his head was already starting to build as his feet twisted and solidified into their new shape, leaving him walking on his toes.

_I gotta get out of here._

He spared a glance at his bandmate snoring in the other bed. He hadn’t woken him yet. Good.

He bolted out the bedroom door and slid down the railing of the iron staircase; not that he normally walked down it, anyway, but his new, hardened nails would have rung loudly enough to wake his downstairs roommates if he had. His fingers worked frantically at the drawstrings of his pajamas, trying to fling off the trousers before the transformation tore them.

Just in time. As he kicked them free, he felt the awful tingle at the base of his spine that meant his tail had just grown in. Something warm and prickly curled from his chin, catching the sweat that poured down his face as his head pounded harder. His vision blurred as his pupils reshaped themselves; he blinked, and the room cleared, slowly.

By the time he got to the door onto the deck, his head was just about to split open. He gritted his teeth against the pain and opened the door slowly, so as not to wake his bandmates; as he eased out into the moonlight, the thunder in his skull reached a crescendo and he dropped to the deck in a ball, whimpering uncontrollably.

The skin of his scalp stretched and split. A trickle of blood ran down his fingers as he clasped his head in his hands; its twin rolled from his mouth as he bit his lip to keep from screaming. Between his fingers, a pair of horns curved upwards, clearing the thatch of his curls.

He blinked, breathing hard against the residual ache. One hand dropped to between his furred and thickened thighs, and he blanched at what he found there.

The new ears twitched, as the power that changed his flesh set a hook in the center of his being, tugging him westward down the beach. Well, at least that end was more sparsely inhabited than this one; it was unlikely that anyone would see him at this late hour. Between his transformed eyes and the enormous full moon, the beach seemed bright as day; he was just glad no one else was out for a stroll this late.

He debated removing the pajama top, knowing he’d be naked (well, except for the fur, and that didn’t cover much) soon enough. Better to leave it where he knew he could find it again, he decided. In a flurry, his fingers unbuttoned it, and he draped it over the railing just out of sight of the bay windows.

A voice deep as the ocean rang in his head. _Come, George Michael Dolenz. I wait._

“Gimme a minute to breathe, my lord,” Micky griped. “That hurts, you know.”

The voice gave no answer, but the tug in his soul redoubled. Numbly, he followed it down the beach at a trot. 

\---

Mike opened his eyes as a beam of moonlight from the window reflected off of something on the floor and bounced into his face.

“The heck?” he mumbled, sitting up. One of the large, shiny belt buckles had been left at the base of the window, along with the pants it had held up; as soon as Mike had rolled onto his side, he got a moonbeam bounced right into his eyes.

“Mick, you gotta pick up your clothes, man,” Mike grumbled.

There was no answer, not even a snuffle. Mike swung his legs off the bed. “I’m serious, Micky, I am not picking up after you and your buckle’s keeping me up.”

Did that make sense? Should moonlight be bright enough to wake him up at all? “Hey, _Micky_!” he called.

Still no answer. Mike hauled himself to his feet and stumbled over to the other bed. It was empty.

Mike’s eyes flew the rest of the way open. Had he picked the wrong bed? There were four in each bedroom now, the result of Millie’s leaving her kids’ beds here when she moved back out. He peered at the other two in the dark. No, their race-car coverlets hadn’t been disturbed. The one he stood next to was the un-made one, with its blankets kicked into a pile at the foot and the sheet draggling on the floor.

Maybe Micky’d been woken by the moonlight, too. It did seem awfully bright. Mike reached for the bedroom door and pushed it open carefully, not wanting to wake Peter and Davy.

Apparently he hadn’t been quiet enough. Peter was peering out of the downstairs bedroom door as Mike descended the stairs. Mike held a finger to his lips and gestured Peter over.

Mike nearly tripped on another pair of pants at the foot of the stairs. “Dangit, Micky,” he mumbled under his breath, “why do you have to leave clothes everywhere?” He kicked them aside angrily.

Peter looked down and frowned. “Mike,” he whispered, “why are Micky’s pajama pants on the floor?”

Mike spared them a second glance. Those were indeed the pajamas Micky had worn to bed.

“I have no idea,” Mike whispered back. “Is he in the bathroom?”

“No,” Peter answered quietly. “The door’s ajar and the light’s off.” He pointed across the den; sure enough, the bathroom door was open a few inches.

Mike tiptoed across the floor, avoiding the scavenged end tables in the dark, and pushed the bathroom door open. Peter was right; it was empty.

“But where else would he go with no pants on?” Mike asked in a hushed tone.

“Who’s got no trousers on?” asked Davy from the bedroom doorway, not bothering to whisper.

“Micky’s gone,” Peter said in his best worried tone, “and he left these on the floor.” He picked up the striped pajama bottoms and handed them to Davy.

“Gone? Where would he go in the middle of the night?” Davy complained. “It’s half past midnight.”

“Hey, guys?” Peter murmured, wandering towards the bandstand.

“I have no idea,” Mike answered. “I woke up because his belt buckle was reflecting into my face, and he was already gone.”

“Hey, fellas,” Peter called, kneeling at the bay window.

“Well, I didn’t hear the car start up,” Davy pointed out. “And he can’t have left the house on foot with no trousers on.”

“Hey, guys,” Peter repeated, looking at something in his hand.

“What _is_ it, Peter?” Mike asked exasperatedly.

“I think Micky may have changed into a werewolf again,” Peter said.

Davy scoffed, “A werewolf? Peter, we defeated the wolfman, and Micky and I both got cured of our curses. They can’t come back for a thousand years, remember?”

“But look.” Peter held up a tuft of coarse, tawny fur. “This was stuck in the door.”

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for that,” Mike assured him as he strode across the room. “There’s lots of ways that fur might get caught in the deck door.”

Peter sat up and turned his face towards Mike; the moonlight lit the right side of his face nearly as bright as day. “And what are they, Michael?”

“Well, there’s . . . ah, it could be that . . . no, maybe . . . .” Mike’s voice trailed off. “Give me a minute, I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

Davy leaned past them. “Is there something flapping on the railing out there?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Mike said with a shrug. “Go check it out.”

Davy shoved a pair of flip-flops onto his feet and stepped out on the deck. Peter continued to look up at Mike, his eyes pleading for another answer.

“I’m sure there’s got to be an explanation that doesn’t involve werewolves,” Mike said, trying to reassure Peter. “I just can’t think of it right now.”

Davy reappeared at the door holding Micky’s pajama shirt. “First, I think Micky’s out on the beach somewhere. Second, I think he’s out here in just his boxers, ‘cause I found this on the stair rail.”

“Actually, that probably means he’s nekkid,” Mike admitted. “I don’t think he wears boxers under his jammies; they’re on the floor next to his pants from today.”

“Naked?” Peter yelped, his eyes wide. “You guys never let _me_ go skinny-dipping!”

“And third, I’m pretty sure he’s not a were- _wolf_ ,” Davy finished.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Peter sighed in relief.

“Don’t go thanking anyone yet,” Davy said, biting gently on his lower lip. “Mike, come have a look at this.”

Mike and Peter scrambled for their beach sandals and followed Davy out onto the deck and down the stairs to the sand below. A very clear pair of tracks led from the base of the stairs off towards the water, then took a sharp turn westward.

They were not human footprints, nor were they wolf paws.

“Hooves?” Peter asked, astonished.

“Yeah,” Davy agreed. “And if you look really closely at the last couple of steps, there are dents that match the front part of the hoofprints. Whatever made these came from our deck and came down in a hurry.”

“You think Micky’s a werecow?” Peter’s eyes were about as wide as they could go.

“He may still have that plum dress in his closet, but he’d still be a werebull,” Mike corrected absently, “and these look more like goat hooves than cattle hooves to me.”

“You’d know better than me, I only know horses,” Davy said, his voice beginning to quaver. “Mike - cloven hooves - you don’t think -”

“Zero?” Mike closed his eyes and forced himself to exhale against the anxiety the thought brought up.

“Or a minor demon, even, but the D-d-d-d-, I mean, he’s got a reason to hold a grudge against us, hasn’t he?” Davy was turning very nearly white in the moonlight at the thought.

“No,” Peter said quietly. “If it was the D-d-devil, I mean, if it was Zero again, he’d be after me or Mike. I’m the one he wanted, and Mike’s the one who outsmarted him.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to try and use Micky to get to us, though,” Mike noted. “I mean, out of all of us, Mick would be the one he has the best claim on, I think. Pete’s one of Nature’s innocents, and Davy and I have at least seen the inside of a church in the last couple of years.”

They stood shuddering in the cool breeze blowing off the Pacific for a moment, and then, without a word, started following the hoofprints single-file down the beach.

\---

They heard the noise long before they saw the bonfire.

“Is someone having a beach party at one in the morning?” Mike wondered aloud as a few sparks flew upwards into the starry sky.

“Sounds like it,” Davy grunted. “Taking advantage of the full moon, maybe. Looks like it’s a couple of dunes ahead of us. Want me to scout ahead?”

“Please don’t, Davy; I’d rather we stick together.” Peter hadn’t stopped shivering, although whether that was because his orange pajamas weren’t keeping the wind out or because he was still expecting Mr. Zero to jump out at them at any moment wasn’t clear.

“Peter’s right,” Mike said flatly. “We’re already down a man, and we don’t know what we’re up against.”

“At the moment, we’re up against a bunch of drunken partiers,” Davy pointed out. “At least, by the sound of it.”

There was certainly some sort of revelry going on up ahead. The sounds of frenzied conga-like drumming and a couple of flutes were liberally splashed with various giggles, guffaws, whoops, and moans. As they edged closer, they could hear the shuffle and scrape of feet on pounded sand.

“The hoofprints are headed straight for the party,” Peter observed.

Mike shrugged. “Well, sure, what horrible demon from the pits of the abyss bent on kidnapping a young fellow wouldn’t stop to join a midnight beach soiree?”

A green glass wine bottle arced over the dune, tumbling through the air and landing neatly neck-down in the sand at Mike’s feet.

“Especially a heck of a party like that,” Davy agreed.

The three Monkees dropped to their hands and knees and crawled up the dune as the sounds of the wild ruckus resolved. There was dancing going on, certainly; glasses, or maybe bottles, clinking; drumming and piping; giggling and gasping and moaning; and under it all, a deeper voice chuckling and murmuring something that they couldn’t quite make out.

Mike, by virtue of his height, poked his head over the top of the dune first. He immediately ducked back down and tried to shove his eyeballs back into their sockets.

Davy and Peter crouched over him in alarm. “What is it, Mike?” Peter whispered.

Mike opened and closed his mouth silently, then shook his head. “It’s pretty wild,” he finally managed to croak.

Davy turned and peeked over the ridge. His eyes went wide, too, but he held his position; the scene below had him mesmerized.

About twenty people, give or take a few, were gathered in the hollow between this dune and the next one. A bonfire with flames about as tall as Davy crackled merrily in the middle. Around it were a host of women, ranging in apparent age from a year or so younger than them to a matronly late middle-age and lounging in the barest excuses for clothes - either sea-green and white splashes of froth around their hips and busts, or carefully draped flowers, vines, and greenery. They passed around several wine bottles and a handful of glass goblets, some of them pouring the dark red brew, some just drinking directly from the bottle. 

At the end of the hollow closer to the sea lounged a larger-than-life fellow - literally larger-than-life, about ten feet tall - in a short tunic and a grapevine head-wreath, nodding and laughing at the antics of the women as they got up and danced, or lounged on the sand and toyed with each other. On the other end of the hollow were three men - no, half-men, half-goats. The two facing the fire each held a pair of panpipes; they were older, heavyset, with a touch of grey in their fur and a hint of a paunch that didn’t hide the erections poking out from their fur. The third one was younger-looking, leaner, with lighter, almost honey-colored fur; he held a double-headed drum nearly as big as his torso under one arm and banged out a wild rhythm for the dancers.

Despite being tousled and draggled with sweat, and pierced by a wicked pair of horns, the drummer’s wild mop of curly hair was remarkably familiar. His technique, even with the mismatched sticks he was using, was even more so.

Davy slid back down a few feet. “I think we found Micky, guys,” he whispered.

Mike looked at him, stunned. “Micky got himself into a lesbian orgy?”

“A what?” Peter yelped, not bothering to whisper. He scrambled up and peered over the ridge. “Oh, _wow_ ,” he breathed. “That’s gorgeous.”

“I think I would have used the word ‘impressive,’” Davy offered.

“I woulda gone with ‘depraved,’” Mike growled. “You said Micky’s down there?”

“He’s the one with the drum,” Peter reported back. “At least, his top half is.”

Mike and Davy joined Peter at the top of the dune. “Man, he’s really getting into it,” Davy whispered, impressed despite himself. “He’s not even looking at the chicks.”

“Are we not going to mention the fact that Micky has horns and goat hooves?” Mike hissed.

A sudden shadow in the moonlight draped across their faces. Behind and above them, a high, cracking voice shouted, “Ah, Bacchus, we have a trio of mortal men spying on your maenads!”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Davy whimpered, looking back over his shoulder.

A pointed, craggy face with a wild beard and glowing golden eyes looked back at him, grinning. It was attached to a fourth satyr, but this one was a giant, like the fellow in the tunic; he was at least nine feet tall, with hooves and horns to match, as well as a rampant phallus that was pointed close enough to directly at them to make Davy excruciatingly uncomfortable.

Mike tried to smile; it looked more like a grimace. “Um, hello, there, Mr. Devil-type-guy, who probably isn’t Zero because his voice is completely different. And you don’t have any wings. And your tail’s not pointed.”

A sudden chittering scream rose up behind them. A bevy of female faces popped over the ridge, grinning wickedly and clicking their fingernails together.

Davy grimaced and keened softly, then nudged Mike in the ribs. “What my friend here means is, hello, Mr. Pan, we didn’t mean to sneak up on your party, we were just looking for a friend, but obviously you’re busy, so we’ll just be going now -”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re going _anywhere_ , little mortals,” said Pan. He leaned in towards them, his eyes narrowing.

“Wait!” yelled a familiar voice. Micky scrambled over the ridge. “Please, don’t hurt them!” he shouted. “They weren’t spying on the girls! They were only looking for me!”

The giant in the tunic strode over, frowning slightly. 

Pan turned to look Micky in the eye. Micky cringed, but held his position. “Is this true, mortals?” Pan asked, pinning Micky in place with his gaze.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Pan, it’s true,” Peter babbled. “We noticed that Micky was gone, and we came out to look for him, only we didn’t see his footprints, but there were goat tracks instead, and we followed them here, and we weren’t trying to see your pretty girls naked, Mr. Bacchus, I promise we weren’t.”

“What he said. Oo!” squeaked Davy, as one of the maenads pinched his shoulder.

“We didn’t even know y’all were out here,” Mike added. “The moonlight woke me up because Micky left his belt on the floor, and then we noticed he was missing, and we never leave a Monkee behind, and _please don’t hurt us!_ ” He dropped to his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

Bacchus leaned down and turned Micky’s face towards him with the tip of a finger. “You know the penalty for mortal men who spy on my rites,” he warned.

“They didn’t mean to!” Micky screeched, stomping one hoof into the sand and twitching his tail. “They just - my lord, please, if the maenads have to punish someone, they can have me. Just let them go!” He flailed in the air with both arms and kicked at the sand.

Peter scrunched down next to Davy. “What _is_ the penalty for mortal men who spy on the maenads of Bacchus?” he asked.

“”You guys don’t do classical mythology in grade school here in the States?” Davy replied, rolling his eyes. “The wild women tear them limb from limb with their bare hands.”

“Oh.” Peter seemed to ponder this for a moment, then dropped to his knees next to Mike and prostrated himself on the sand. “Please, Mr. Pan and Mr. Bacchus,” he begged, “we’re too young to die, even if it is at the hands of a screaming horde of pretty women!”

“And I just remembered,” Davy added, edging to the left, “we, ah, we left our brutal human sacrifice suits at home. Pure white, much nicer than these pajamas. We’ll just nip off and go get them.” One of the maenads hopped the ridge and boxed him in; he grinned feebly, waved, and then knelt next to Peter. “Oh, mighty Pan, please have mercy!” he cried.

Bacchus strode over, a fearsome staff topped by a bristling pinecone in his hands. He pointed it directly at Mike’s chest. “There must be a penalty paid,” he stated. “What have you to offer other than blood?”

“Music!” Micky blurted before Mike could answer. “We can play for the revel instead!”

“But we have music already,” Pan stated dismissively. “Your drumming and the two flutes are more than sufficient.”

Davy looked hopeful. “What about another kind of music?” he asked.

Bacchus leaned down to meet Davy’s eyes. The young god barely looked out of his teen years himself, even though Davy knew he must be much older. “What sort of music?” Bacchus asked, softly.

“Rock and roll,” Davy answered, and Mike and Peter nodded vigorously.

Bacchus stood again, and met Pan’s gaze. “I have heard of this rock music,” he said. “What I have heard about it pleases me.”

Pan shrugged. “Let us let the maenads decide, then. A sacrifice is a sacrifice, and I care little whether it is blood or wine or sweat of hard labor.”

The women at the top of the ridge disappeared; a high-pitched murmuring floated up, incomprehensible over the rush of the waves and the crackling of the fire. Micky crossed his fingers behind his back and glanced down at his friends groveling in the sand.

Mike raised his eyebrows at him and jerked his head back in the direction of the Pad.

Micky shrugged, palms out flat. His ears flicked and his cheeks burned.

With an ululating shriek, the maenads surged back up the dune. “Rock and roll!” they howled as one voice.

“There’s just one problem,” Mike said. “Our instruments are back at the Pad.”

Bacchus nodded. “That is not an issue,” the young god assured him.

Davy volunteered, “I can say here with Micky as insurance while the other guys go get our stuff.

“No need,” Bacchus said, smiling broadly. “Imagine where your instruments are right now. Envision them clearly, along with anything else you might need.”

The Monkees closed their eyes and did as they were told; Peter’s face screwed up with the effort of concentrating on his bass and amp.

Bacchus clapped his hands together. Immediately, their instruments appeared in front of them; half of Micky’s kit proceeded to slide down the dune, and he bounded down after it.

“Wow, that worked even better than when we do it,” Peter observed.

Bacchus dusted his nails on his tunic. “There are some perks to being a god.”

“Showoff,” Pan grumbled, as he helped Micky retrieve the crash cymbal.

“Oh, shoot, we should have gone for the acoustic instruments,” Mike realized aloud. “There’s no place to plug in the amps out here.”

Bacchus picked up the trailing end of the power cord for Peter’s bass amp. “These run on electricity, yes?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Peter answered. “110 volts wall current.”

“Hmm.” Bacchus looked around. “Where do you want to set up?”

Micky pointed at the spot where he and the other satyrs had been playing. “Down there, facing the water,” he said. “That way the houses up the canyon are less likely to hear us.”

“Go ahead and place your instruments where you wish,” Bacchus said, “and I will see what I can do.”

The other two satyrs gathered the scattered parts of the drum kit from Micky and Pan, and carted them down the other side of the dune alongside their fellow horned ones. Mike and Peter followed, lugging their amps, and Davy followed with his own instruments, the gig bag with all the cables, and Micky’s stick case.

“Oh, shoot, I forgot the throne,” Micky grumbled. “Is it okay if I sit on the _davul_?”

Mike set up his amp off to the right and waited for Peter to figure out where he wanted his. “You girls, uh, you ready for this?” he asked the writhing mass of female flesh in front of their impromptu stage, and was rewarded by an inarticulate but enthusiastic scream.

Davy passed Micky the stick bag and rummaged for his maracas. “You guys don’t need to turn it up too loud,” he reminded Mike. “None of us have microphones, so don’t drown the vocals out.”

“We don’t have anything to turn up yet,” Mike said in exasperation. “There’s no power out here. Right now, no one’s going to be able to hear anything other than the drum kit.”

“Are you ready?” Bacchus asked. At Mike and Peter’s affirmative nods, he turned his attention skyward. “O, father Zeus, I need a little favor,” he started, and then continued his request in Greek.

“What did he say?” Mike whispered to Micky.

“Damned if I know,” Micky whispered back, flicking his ears. “Growing these things in the middle of the night doesn’t mean I can speak another language.”

“He said something about needing the fire of the skies here on earth,” Peter answered.

Davy stared at him. “You don’t know what maenads do, but you can translate that?”

Peter’s reply was lost in the crack of thunder as a bolt of lightning struck the top of the dune they’d been crouching on. As they picked themselves back up off the sand, a glowing, crackling ball drifted from the strike and rolled gently down the dune towards them.

Bacchus reached out and carefully pushed the ball lightning into the sand behind Micky’s drum kit. “I believe that should be sufficient to power your speakers for the night,” he said, gesturing lightly.

“You want me to plug into a thunderbolt?” Mike mumbled.

“I’ll go first, to see if it’s safe,” Peter offered. Over Mike’s squeak of protest, he made sure his amp was switched off, then sunk the plug into the top of the glowing sphere. Carefully, he flicked the power switch on the amp.

The red light came on, and the amp hummed softly.

“Looks good so far,” Peter reported. He switched the amp back off, plugged the bass into its socket, and turned it back on. He plucked a few notes, adjusted the volume knob, and started tuning. “It’s working fine.”

“That makes no darn sense at all,” Mike scolded.

“Mike, I’m half goat at the moment, there are two Greek gods right there, and we’re about to play for a bacchanalia of maenads,” Micky pointed out. “None of this makes any sense!”

“Don’t think you’re off the hook for the half-goat thing, either,” Mike growled, but he plugged in his amp and fiddled with his tuning pegs. “Pete, gimme an A, willya?”

Davy tested the red maracas while Mike and Peter finished tuning. “So,” he asked, “what’s the setlist?”

“Oh, I figured we’d start with ‘Please Don’t Tear Us To Pieces’ and go from there,” Mike said as nonchalantly as possible.

“I don’t think I know that one,” Peter responded. “What key is it in?”

“It’s in the key of I’d like to make it out of this alive!” Mike glared at him and Micky.

“Whoa, big fella. Settle down,” Davy chided. “I’m thinking we should start with a couple of tunes that Micky doesn’t have to sing lead on, given that he’s trying to play with the kick and hi-hat pedals on sand and he doesn’t have any heels at the moment.”

“I’ll be fine,” Micky assured him, but he didn’t look terribly sure of himself.

“I’m sure you will be, after you get a chance to warm up a bit,” Davy said, offering his half-transformed bandmate a small smile, “but I’d just as soon you get a chance to find your - um - footing.”

Mike shot Davy a hard look. “How are you taking this so easily?” he demanded.

Davy shrugged back. “I don’t know,” he answered. “If I had to guess, I’d say - if the Greek and Roman myths are real, then Cupid’s been playing with me for years. These guys can’t be any worse.”

Bacchus chuckled. Davy squeaked; he hadn’t realized the god was listening, but Bacchus reassured him, “No, little mortal, you’re absolutely right. Eros is a much harder master than I.”

Mike wiped his forehead; he was sweating despite the cool ocean breeze. Maybe it was the bonfire. “Okay, Davy. We’ll do it your way. How do we start?”

“Together, in proper California harmony.” Davy winked. “Think we can do this one without the organ?”

Micky blinked at him. “You were just saying you didn’t want me to have to concentrate on drumming and singing at the same time, and you want me doing _that_ harmony vocal?”

“It’s got a really simple drum line,” Davy pointed out.

“True,” Micky admitted.

Mike sighed. “Yeah, I can fill in for the big chords. We ready?”

Peter nodded. Micky locked eyes with Mike, and raised his sicks to count off as they all inhaled.

“Do de ron de ron, de do de ron ron,” they sang, and Davy spun out to the front with his most charming smile, exclaiming, “She hangs out!”

The maenads did what they were best at - they went wild.

\---

Mike rubbed his blistered fingers against his pajamas, then checked for blood. Yup, there was a streak - faint, but visible against the faded cotton. The pick stung in his hand.

Peter was in worse shape, mostly because he never conserved his energy in a show. He’d given every song his all, and now he was exhausted, half-slumped against his amp. Micky was sweating like a pig, and his hands were nearly as blistered as Mike’s, although of them all he was in the least bad shape. Maybe being part-goat gave you extra stamina. Worst of all, neither the gods nor the maenads had brought any water; they’d been wetting their throats with borrowedwine, and despite being careful, they were all at least tipsy.

Davy was currently being carried around the remains of the bonfire by the maenads, who had decided two songs ago that _something_ needed to be ripped to shreds, and had settled on Davy’s pajama shirt. The satiny tatters were wrapped around their wrists and heads as souvenir bands, and they were parading Davy around on their shoulders as if he were a prize. He looked alternately thrilled and terrified.

Mike stifled a cough. He really didn’t want another drink of wine, but he was thoroughly parched. “We wanna try and do one more without him?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“One more ought to do it,” Micky panted. “The sky’s starting to get light over there.” One drumstick pointed east; sure enough, the first glow of dawn was visible over the light pollution across the bay.

“Indeed,” Pan snorted. “Sweet Selune sinks to her watery bed after lighting our rites, and Eos prepares the eastern sky to end our revels.”

Bacchus smiled beatifically at the band. “The blood sacrifice is given in full,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards Mike and Peter. “Give us one more tune to lighten our steps home, and the night shall end in joy.”

“What haven’t we done already?” Peter asked, trying to stand and stumbling instead.

“We’re out of my songs,” Davy called from his perch on the maenads’ shoulders. “It’ll have to be one of yours.”

Mike rasped, “I don’t think I’ve got enough voice left to sing.” They rarely put more than a handful of his songs in a set, and he was a touch out of practice; combined with his reluctance to have too much of the wine, his throat was nearly as raw as his fingers were.

“Did we do ‘I’ll Be Back Up On My Feet’ yet?” Micky asked.

Peter blinked. “Will you?” he asked, his worried eyes dropping to the kick drum.

“Huh?” It took a moment for the confusion on Micky’s face to clear. “Oh, yeah. Pretty soon, I hope.”

“How soon is soon?” Peter continued.

Micky shrugged. “I dunno, maybe a day or two? That’s how long it usually takes.”

“Usually?” Mike’s voice cracked. “How often does this happen?”

Micky shook his head, sending his curls flying. “Not that often, Mike. I’ll explain later, okay? Let’s just do the song.”

“Toss me the tambourine?” Davy asked. One of the satyrs scooped it from the sand and handed it up to him.

Peter took a deep breath and plucked out the opening notes. Their fingers were shaky, but Micky’s voice was strong enough, and Davy kept the beat at a couple of places where Micky’s hooves slipped.

Mike met Peter’s eyes as they came around to the final repeat of the chorus, and their guitars both dropped out, leaving their four voices and Davy’s tambourine as bare as their start had been. After a moment of pregnant silence, the maenads erupted in an exhausted cheer.

“And now, my daughters,” Bacchus announced, “our revels are at an end. Go forth into the world, and remember that in me you are free.”

Slowly, as if they were being roused from a daze, the women stumbled past the satyrs and began plucking dresses and skirts from a pile, staring at them sadly before struggling into straps and sleeves.

All of the women, that is, except for one. One of the younger girls, dressed in little more than a kiss of seafoam, traced Bacchus’s jaw delicately with her fingers, then dove into the rising tide and disappeared.

Mike took a step towards the water. “Is she -”

“She is fine,” Bacchus assured him, raking sand across the remaining embers of the bonfire. “She is a cousin of mine.”

Davy struggled to sit up from the spot where the maenads had set him down. “Let me guess. A daughter of your uncle Poseidon?”

“Right again, son of the White Island,” Bacchus chuckled. “I’m beginning to see why Eros is so fond of you. If I didn’t think I might have to fight him for you, I’d woo you myself.”

“Er. Well, I typically - you know, I -” Davy stammered.

Bacchus laughed, his teeth flashing. “This one! I tell you, Pan, they’re getting more clever by the century. Trying to let a god down gently!” He pushed the flickering remains of the ball lightning deeper into the sand, until its yellow-white glow was no longer visible.

Davy exhaled. “He’s winding me up, isn’t he?” he complained good-naturedly in Micky’s direction.

“He does that,” Micky said, shaking his head. He stood up from the hide-head drum he’d been sitting on. “My lord,” he addressed Bacchus, “it’s a long way back to our house, and we don’t have the cases for the instruments -”

“They shall go back the way they came,” Bacchus said, reaching down and patting Micky on the head, right between the horns. “Are all your wires ready?”

“Hold on,” asked Peter, frantically winding a cable and stuffing it in the bag. “I think that’s everything except - okay, thanks, Davy - yeah, now that we’ve got the tambourine, that should be everything.”

“Excellent,” Bacchus said, and clapped his hands. The instruments disappeared.

Mike looked up at the young god. “Those are back where you got them from, right, sir?”

“Every string in place,” Bacchus assured them.

Pan curled his broad hands around the shoulders of the older satyrs. “And, at the creeping light of rosy-fingered dawn, I must take my farewell.”

“You know, she’s rather tired of everyone talking about her fingers,” Bacchus reminded him.

“She can suck my - well, enough of that.” Pan tilted Micky’s jaw up and looked him carefully up and down. “A long way this one’s come,” he murmured.

Micky’s cheeks went pink, and he squirmed under Pan’s gaze. “Um, please don’t do that, my lord,” he pleaded.

“You will learn to enjoy the part of me in you, in time,” Pan chuckled, letting Micky go. “Onward, then.” He skipped off across the dunes, the two pipers following close behind.

Davy spared a glance at the line of women straggling slowly up the beach. “They’ll be all right, yeah?” he asked Bacchus.

“Better than all right,” Bacchus said proudly. “To dance for me is to know their worth, both as women of flesh and as souls like stars.” He paused. “They just need a little rest. And perhaps an aspirin.”

The eastern sky was rapidly becoming purple instead of midnight blue. “We need to get back to the Pad,” Micky said nervously. “I don’t need anyone else seeing me like this.”

“Like this meaning you’re a satyr, or like this meaning you’re not wearing any pants?” Peter asked, scanning the beach for any early morning surfers.

Mike’s gaze dropped, involuntarily. “Holy - is that what you’re normally hiding in your boxers, Mick?”

Micky flushed red and spread his hands across his furry groin. “No, it isn’t,” he half-whispered. “The transformation causes some, uh, um -”

“Enhancements,” Davy said, punctuating his suggestion with a low whistle.

Peter pouted. “I want one of those.” He turned around. “Mr. Bacchus, can I - oh, he’s gone.”

“Believe me, Pete, you don’t want it like this.” Micky swallowed. “It won’t go down until right before I change back.”

Davy stared at him. “Even if you do something about it?” He sounded dubious.

Micky tried to look everywhere but at his friends’ faces. “The, uh, the usual doesn’t work, um, I mean it _works_ , but it still doesn’t go away.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never actually tried it with a girl like this. For, you know, obvious reasons.”

“Ah, come on,” Davy laughed, slapping him on the back. “I’m sure one of the maenads would take care of that for you. I think half of them copped a feel on me when they were hauling me about, not a one seemed disappointed, and even on my best days I’ve not got even two-thirds of that.”

Contemplating comparing sizes with Davy made Micky look like he wanted to shrink into the sand and disappear. “Can we just go home before someone sees us?” he whined.

“Yes. C’mon, let’s go,” Mike ordered, and the others fell in step.

\---

The Greek god had been true to his word; all of their instruments were right where they’d left them. The only evidence that they’d been out was the large quantity of sand stuck to everything, and the new double-headed hand drum behind the trap set. Mike had contemplated ignoring the mess until they’d at least had a nap, but Peter had started cleaning off the amps without saying anything, and the others followed suit.

Micky had gotten up halfway through, ducked into the bathroom, and returned with a towel wrapped around his loins. Davy hid a grin behind one hand, but didn’t say anything.

Finally, the bulk of the sand had been cleaned off and swept back out onto the deck. Mike dropped into one of the chairs and waved. “Okay, guys,” he panted, “I think we need a break.”

Peter nodded and headed into the kitchen. Davy came over and perched on the side of the chaise. Micky sat on the edge of the bandstand, trying to fold his legs into a comfortable position.

“You know what’s going to happen,” Davy mused. “Babbitt’s going to show up and see the hoofprints, and think we’re keeping a goat in here.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Micky grumbled.

Peter handed Mike a tumbler of ice water. “Thanks, Pete,” Mike said gratefully and drained it in one gulp.

Davy accepted another glass from Peter, and quickly got outside of half of it. “Can’t imagine most goats can handle six-eighths time, actually,” he quipped.

Peter passed a third tumbler to Micky. “I don’t think you’re a goat,” he said, his eyes on Micky’s lap.

“Then you’re not paying attention,” Micky snapped. He knocked back the empty glass and jumped to a stand. “Peter, _look_ at me! I’m a complete freak!”

“Not at all,” Davy contradicted him. “You’re a well-known fabulous beast from classical mythology.”

Mike held up a hand. The situation had been a stone fright at first, but now that they knew Micky wasn’t missing and weren’t having to play for their lives, he was starting to get curious. “Tell you what, Mick,” he said, “why don’t you explain the whole thing to us before you get all depressed about it.”

“Not much to tell, really.” Micky leaned against the wooden Indian and propped his head on one fist. “I told you guys that my Dad’s from Italy, right?”

“Right where it meets Yugoslavia,” Davy agreed.

Peter set a pitcher full of ice water on the coffee table and took a seat on the floor near Micky’s hooves. “And your family name probably wasn’t ‘Dolenz’ until he came here,” he finished.

“Right,” Micky sighed. “So, that whole part of the world is just north of both Macedonia and the part of Italy that was where the Etruscans lived in early Roman times.”

“Homes to satyrs and fauns, respectively,” Davy realized out loud.

“You got it,” Micky said ruefully. “Near as I can tell, there’s just a touch of satyr blood in the ol’ family tree. If it ever manifested with Dad the way it does with me, though, he never said anything about it.” He poured himself another half a glass of water.

“You said your mom was part Irish and part Indian,” Peter pointed out. “Maybe you’ve got a little bit of fairy or kachina on her side, and it just sort of brought it out.”

Mike bit his tongue. On the one hand, talking about fairies was clearly ludicrous.

On the other hand, here was one of his best friends in the world, with a goat’s legs and tail, a member you could hang a ten-gallon hat on, significantly more hair on his arms than usual (although not his chest, which seemed odd), a scraggly three-inch beard on the end of a chin that had been clean-shaven when they went to bed, ears that swept back to points and ended with a tuft of goat fur, eyes that were almost solid black, and a pair of curved white horns poking up from his tangled hair.

That was pretty crazy, too, but here it was. And they’d just seen two Greek gods and at least one nereid. Maybe fairies and Indian land spirits weren’t any crazier in comparison.

“So how often does this happen?” Mike asked, his voice much calmer than before. He leaned over, refilled his glass, and took another big swig.

“When I was going through puberty, it would happen a couple of times a year,” Micky mumbled, pacing back and forth. His tail twitched as he walked. “After that, though, it only ever happened when I was really, really drunk. Maybe twice in the last five years, both before I met you guys.” He swallowed another gulp of water and winced. “I was hoping if I could keep from getting smashed it wouldn’t ever happen again. This is the first time it’s happened sober since I was fifteen.”

“Is it always on a full moon?” Mike asked.

“Not always, but it’s usually within a couple of days of full,” Micky answered. 

“Does Bacchus show up every time?” Peter wondered aloud.

“Either him or Pan, one of the two.” Micky stirred the ice in his glass with a finger. “I think this is the first time it’s been both. If it’s Bacchus, sometimes the maenads are with him, but not always. Maybe half the time.” He took another sip and rolled the water around his mouth for a moment, then added, “Pan usually just comes with a couple of other satyrs.”

“Well, maybe that’s why, then,” Davy suggested. “The maenads got together to do their thing under the full moon and called both of them up. And both of them being here was too strong a force for you to resist.”

“That’s what it felt like,” Micky agreed. “Once I’d changed, it was like I was being reeled in.” He mimed being pulled by a gigantic fishing rod, ending by flopping around on the floor.

“I guess even the gods need a drummer sometimes,” Mike concluded. “Well, now that we’ve got you back here, we’re not dying of thirst thanks to Peter, and none of us got any sleep last night, I propose we go back to bed until noon and see whether you’re back to normal when we get up.”

“Davy and I might want to shower off the sand first,” Micky suggested, glancing at the backs of his ankles.

“And have the bathtub smell like wet goat?” Davy wrinkled his nose. “I’d tell you to use the garden hose, but it’s out front, isn’t it.”

Micky’s ears drooped. “I’ll just crash out here,” he suggested.

“Or,” Mike suggested, “you could sleep on top of one of Millie’s extra beds, and we can just wash the bedspread later.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Micky stood up and yawned; the other three followed two beats later. Slowly, Micky climbed the spiral staircase, his hooves clanging on every step.

\---

When Mike woke up again, the clock read a quarter ‘till one, and Micky had already left the bedroom, although the coverlet on the bed he’d crashed out on was rumpled and slightly askew. Mike contemplated whether or not a shower was strictly necessary, and decided that it was, especially if there was any chance of his leaving the Pad today; his bangs were still crusty from last night’s sweat.

He shucked his pajamas, stuffed them into the laundry hamper, and rummaged in the dresser for clean pairs of briefs and jeans. Remembering Micky’s pajama shirt on the deck railing, he fleetingly wondered if anyone had thought to bring it back in.

Softly, Mike closed the bedroom door and shuffled down the stairs. A soft snore brought his head up; Micky was sprawled on the chaise, with a beach towel draped across his midsection as a short blanket.

Now, why had Micky come out here just to go back to sleep? Mike scratched his head and debated demanding an explanation, but it seemed kinder to let the exhausted drummer sleep it off a little longer. Mike continued to the bathroom and hunted for a clean towel.

As soon as he started the water, Mike realized how much he’d needed this; not only did he smell like sweat, he stank of fear, too. He chased the sour odor off with heavy suds and thought through the night’s events.

On the one hand, playing a nearly five-hour set at the equivalent of knifepoint didn’t sit well with him. Gods that played those sorts of games weren’t gods he wanted any dealings with.

On the other hand, from the girls’ perspective, they _had_ been peeping. They hadn’t meant to, but it was still rude. And that was what Bacchus, at least, had been annoyed about. It seemed like an apology ought to have been enough, but if just shredding their fingers and losing Davy’s shirt was what it took to not be torn to pieces, then from that perspective they got off easy.

Not his rules. Mike didn’t like them, but it seemed like Micky, at least, had to play by them. And the gods had played straight; it sure beat the pants off of dealing with Zero.

He shook the last of the rinse water out of his hair and shut off the spigot. As he stepped out and toweled off his head, he glanced at the reflection in the mirror and realized he really ought to shave. That would be time-consuming, though, and he wasn’t sure his hands were steady enough. While he was thinking about his hands, he opened the first aid kit and fished out a couple of small bandages; he didn’t want to risk making those blisters worse.

His fingers safely tended to, Mike zipped up his jeans and draped the towel around his neck to catch the last drips from his hair. As he stepped out into the den, he saw Micky shift on the chaise; Mike tried to sneak past him, but as he crossed the floor, Micky pushed himself up to seated and waved at him.

“G’morning, Mike,” he yawned. “Or good afternoon, whatever it is.”

“Afternoon,” Mike agreed. “Past lunchtime, more to the point.” He forced himself to look Micky in the eye, despite the nearly solid darkness there. Not only was it unnerving in its own right, it made it hard to tell where Micky was looking.

“Well,” Micky said thoughtfully, “last I looked, we had slightly stale cereal, seriously stale bread, one can of beans, and one can of tomato soup.”

“Tomato and bean soup with toast it is,” Mike declared, heading for the kitchen. He paused with his hand on the cabinet knob. “Um - can you eat . . .”

“The stomach’s still in the mostly-human half, if that’s what you were about to ask,” Micky said. “I can’t eat the boxes and tin cans.”

“Goats don’t actually eat the cans; they just chew off the labels,” Mike pointed out.

Micky laughed; it was the first genuine laugh Mike had heard from him since they got back to the Pad that morning. “Whaddaya know, our resident redneck knows more about goats than the resident goatboy,” Micky giggled. He got up and wrapped the towel back around his waist like a sarong.

Mike shrugged. “You got a ranch, there ain’t no reason not to keep a goat around to eat your scraps,” he said, playing up his accent. “They’re easy to feed, you can milk the nannies, and they’re good eating.”

Micky yelped. “Mike! No, you don’t - please, I’m too old and tough, don’t eat meeeee!” He ended with a shriek and dropped to the floor, flailing.

“Not you, you fool,” Mike groaned. “Stop it, you’ll wake up Davy and Peter.”

“Too late,” Davy grumbled from the bedroom doorway. “Why is Micky objecting to you eating him, again?”

“I haven’t eaten him the first time, and I ain’t gonna,” Mike retorted, setting a battered pot on the hot plate.

Peter stuck his head out above Davy’s. “Maybe someone should,” he suggested, pointedly staring at the projection in the middle of Micky’s towel. “Doesn’t that get sore after a while?”

“PETER!” Micky and Mike both shrieked. Davy and Peter dissolved into giggles and slammed the door behind them.

There was silence for a good fifteen seconds. Finally, Micky said, “I think Peter just put one over on me. This half-goat thing is clearly affecting my brain.”

Mike opened both cans, emptied them into the pot, and added two cans of water. Stirring the resulting mess, he said, “Well, I don’t know for sure, but I imagine walking everywhere on your toenails could take a lot out of you.” He sniffed at the contents dubiously. “Do we still have any chili powder?”

“If we do, it’ll be in the other cabinet behind the dried onion flakes,” Micky answered.

Mike found it and added a generous pinch. As an afterthought, he stirred in a few of the onion flakes, along with some salt and pepper. Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, “Does it hurt?”

Micky raised his eyebrows. “Walking on my toes? Nah, it just feels weird for the first ten minutes or so.”

“No, I meant -”

Micky spread his hands across his crotch. “Now, don’t you start, too!”

Mike chuckled. “Unlike certain people I could name, I ain’t got a reason to be jealous, there. No, I meant just changing shape.”

The pause was long enough that Mike wondered if Micky had heard him. When Micky finally whispered, “Yes,” Mike wondered if he’d actually spoken aloud, or if he’d just mouthed it.

Mike pursed his lips. “Wow. That bad?”

Micky pulled himself off the kitchen floor and into one of the wooden chairs; his hooves scraped against the concrete. “Once it got me before I’d gone to bed. I was sitting around with a couple of my old buddies from back when I thought I wanted to work on cars for a living, and we were passing around a few beers. You know how it is. Anyway, I was miles from home, at someone else’s apartment, and it just - caught me. They thought I was having an attack of appendicitis and a migraine at the same time.” He stopped, his eyes tracking to the window. “Then the horns came in.”

Mike squinted, trying to imagine what those horns would have looked like with the haircut Micky had when they’d met. They’d probably be more impressive, if nothing else; the riot of curls hid at least a couple of inches. “So, did they take you back home or to the hospital?” Mike asked.

The noise that spattered from Micky’s mouth was something between a spit-take and one of the bitterest laughs Mike had ever heard. “Neither, man,” he managed to choke out. “They ran for the hills, screaming like they’d seen the Dev- no, scratch that. They wouldn’t have recognized Zero for what he is.”

The soup was starting to bubble. Mike turned down the heat. “So,” he asked softly, “did they ever come back?”

“Nope.” Micky slumped in his chair. “There’s a reason I never introduced you guys to many of my old friends. After that, I didn’t have many left.” He flicked on ear and scratched behind it. “The worst of it is, at least one of them decided I’d spiked their beers with something freaky and spread rumors about it. I lost a couple of friends who weren’t even there over the whole thing.

“Uh-huh.” Mike gave the soup a good stir. “This looks just about done. Go ahead and start some toast while I tell the kids that lunch is up.”

Micky undid the twist-tie on the bread while Mike slouched over to the bedroom door, tapping it with the back of his hand. “Hey, you two,” he called, “open up.”

The door swung open; Mike ducked in and wheeled on Davy and Peter. At least they’d gotten dressed. Peter was crouched behind the door; Davy hid behind him. “You two listening in on that?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Peter said in a melancholy tone. His lip was quivering; Micky’s story had obviously had an effect on him.

“Look,” Mike ordered, “I need you guys to cool it for a little bit, okay? I know you’re really diggin’ having something this funny that we can beat him to all the jokes on, but he ain’t laughing yet.”

“You got one good chuckle out of him,” Davy pointed out. Mike scowled, and he deflated a bit. “But - all right,” Davy concluded.

“I think the bit about making the bathroom smell like wet goat actually hurt his feelings,” Peter observed.

“Really?” Davy seemed surprised at the thought, and dismayed at Mike’s and Peter’s nods. “Oh. Well, I do think he’d clog the drain, but -”

“No, seriously, cool it,” Mike snapped. “You can rag him about it once he’s back to normal. Not right now.”

“It it happened to one of us,” Davy snapped back, “we’d never hear the end of it out of him!”

“And it’s a drag when he does it, too,” Peter said mildly. “But that’s not an excuse.” He had his ear pressed to the door again.

“Okay, I’ll keep it under wraps until he quits his moping,” Davy agreed, deflating a bit. “I don’t want to give him a complex.”

“That may be too late,” Peter murmured. The other two pressed their ears to the door on either side of him. A noise entirely too similar to someone trying to choke back sobs drifted in from the kitchen.

“Is he _crying_?” Davy asked, astonished. He and Mike looked at each other in stunned disbelief.

“I’ll go find out,” Peter said, reaching for the doorknob. Mike grabbed for his shoulder, but Peter brushed his hand off gently. “I cry in front of you guys all the time,” he reminded Mike. “I don’t think Micky will be as ashamed if it’s me.”

By the time Peter had eased out of the door (a difficult proposition with Davy still leaning against it) and into the kitchen, Micky was silent, but a steady trickle of tears still ran down his cheeks and into his goatee. Peter stood next to him for a moment, making it as clear as he could that he offered no judgement. Micky busied himself with the toast, buttering and setting four slices on the table, before suddenly whirling around and burying his face in Peter’s shoulder. Peter curled one arm around Micky, patting his back, as Micky’s horns brushed the side of his head. The door opened behind them, but Peter ignored that for the moment.

“We’re not running,” he whispered into Micky’s hair. That had the opposite effect from the one he intended; Micky started sobbing again.

“Peter’s right,” Mike said, putting a hand on Micky’s other shoulder. “I kind of wish you’d told us about this from the beginning, but no real harm done.”

Davy chuckled wryly. “Would you have believed him, Mike?” he asked. “I’d have figured it was all some sort of gag.” He patted Micky on the back. “But now that I’ve seen it - nothing to run from, Micky. Nothing at all.”

Micky hiccuped and stood up, trying not to smack Peter or Mike with his horns. “You’re sure, guys?” he whimpered.

“Sure, we’re sure,” Mike declared. “Now, let’s have us some lunch.”

\---

Getting some solid food into Micky seemed to improve his mood significantly. After they’d demolished the soup and toast, made more toast, devoured that too, and shoved all of the dishes into the sink, he’d gone to check out the _davul_ drum that had accompanied the rest of the kit back to the Pad.

“It’s a little bit - cannibalistic isn’t quite the right word, but close,” he explained to Peter. “Both heads are made of stretched goat hide, like most traditional drums.”

Peter had tried to strap it on, and Micky had corrected his posture twice, but once he got it, he managed a quick little dance beat in seven-eighths time that delighted Micky and made Davy faintly queasy.

“How can you dance in seven?” Davy demanded.

Peter shrugged and handed the drum back to Micky. “Same as you do in four and in three. Just alternate.”

“If you alternate a foxtrot and a waltz like that -” Davy attempted to demonstrate, and the result had Micky rolling on the floor laughing.

“Whoops!” Micky grabbed the towel as it unwrapped itself from his hips. “Sorry, guys, didn’t mean to flash you.”

Peter froze. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t?” Micky snuck a glance down. “Gosharoonie! It’s behaving for once!”

“Wait,” Peter said as worry stole across his features, “didn’t you say earlier that meant that -”

He was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream as Micky doubled over in agony. Davy and Peter darted for him, Peter catching his shoulders and Davy diving for his hooves. “Mike!” they hollered in unison, as Micky’s voice rose into an anguished howl.

“Whoa! Can we - over here, guys, let’s get him on a bed,” Mike ordered. He flung the bedroom door open as Peter and Davy charged through it, barely keeping their hold on their squirming satyr. Peter rolled Micky’s shoulders on to one of the unused beds, then jumped onto the head of the bed himself to help hold him down as Davy tried to set Micky’s legs on the coverlet without getting kicked.

Mike sat on the next bed over - it was made, so probably Davy’s. “Steady there, fella,” he said, settling a hand on Micky’s shoulder to keep him from throwing himself off as he convulsed.

Peter folded his legs into the lotus position and gently took Micky’s tossing head by the horns. “It’s okay, Micky,” he crooned. “We’re here. Breathe through it.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Peter?” Davy asked. “He has one good spasm, he’ll gore you in the kidneys.”

“He won’t,” Peter said, his voice soft and soothing. “He’ll be all right, and we will, too.”

Micky gasped and arched his back; a horrible popping noise echoed through the room as his legs began to rearrange themselves.

“Okay, sorry, fellows,” Davy said lightly, “but if I watch this part I’ll pass out.”

“Then don’t,” Mike directed. “Cover your eyes if you need to.”

The goat-tail shrank to nothing and vanished. Hooves stretched out and became toes again, as the goat-legs shrank spasmodically and became high-arched feet. Pointed ears flapped, then contracted into round primate pinnae.

The horns abruptly came away in Peter’s hands. Peter blinked at them wildly, then tossed them onto Davy’s bed and slid his fingers into Micky’s hair.

Micky yowled, every muscle in his body clenching at once. There was one final snap as his ankles popped back into place, and then he went limp. Peter untangled one hand and stroked Micky’s forehead, brushing away beads of sweat and perhaps a few new tears.

Mike slid his grip from Micky’s shoulder to his hand. “Hey, Mick?” he probed. “You with us?”

Micky’s eyelids flickered open. His eyes were back to normal, with visible whites and his usual gold-hazel irises. “Is . . . am I done?” he gasped.

Davy peeked between his fingers. “You’re still pretty hairy,” he pointed out. “But you’re the right shape now, at least.”

“Most of that will come off,” Micky said. “See?” He leaned down and brushed at his thighs; a double handful of fur fell away, dusting the bedspread.

“Maybe you should do that on the deck,” Peter suggested.

“One, we’ll end up with an angora sweater’s worth of fuzz on the kitchen floor if I try to walk that far, and two, I’d rather not uncover my backside to the whole world,” Micky replied.

Peter frowned. “You keep making a big deal about the naked thing.”

Mike stood up. “Tell you what,” he said, “You scrape off as much of the mohair as you can right here, then we’ll take the covers out on the deck and shake them off out there.”

Davy headed for the door. “And I’ll fetch you a pair of trousers while you’re at it.”

After retrieving a pair of sweatpants, Mike and Davy waited outside the bedroom for several minutes, listening to Micky asking Peter whether he’d gotten it all and apparently getting several “no” answers before a “yes.” Mike rapped on the door, calling “Are you decent?”

“I’ve never been decent,” Micky called back, “but I have pants on now.”

“Close enough,” Davy snickered.

They bundled the bedspread out onto the deck and unfurled it, sending a cloud of honey-colored wool out into the scraggly trees between the deck and the white sand of the beach. Most of it tumbled away on the breeze; a few tufts snagged in the branches.

“Eh, the birds’ll make nests out of it,” Micky shrugged. “It’s pretty warm stuff. They’ll get more use out of it than I do.”

Davy studied him carefully. “You’ve still got the beard,” he observed.

“I also don’t look like I shaved below decks,” Micky replied. “Apparently if it’s primate hair instead of goat fur, I keep it.”

Peter looked puzzled for a moment, then ran his hands through Micky’s hair.

“Hey!” Laughing, Micky chided him, “Give a guy a warning next time!”

“When they came off,” Peter explained, “I could feel the bare spots where the horns had been. They’ve filled in already.”

“Good thing, too. I’m too young for bald spots,” Micky said with relief.

For a moment, they watched the last remnants of the wool get tossed by the wind below the deck. Finally, Mike inhaled deeply, and said, “Okay, Micky, next time you change, let one of us know before you leave.”

“I’m sort of hoping there isn’t a next time,” Micky admitted, “but if there is, sure.”

“Actually,” Davy broke in, “I’m kind of curious whether you can make it happen on purpose.”

“That’d be neat!” Peter exclaimed, then caught himself. “Oh, wait, no, it hurts you when it happens. That would be awful.”

“But maybe it’s painful partly _because_ he’s fighting it,” Davy suggested. “Maybe if he learned to control it, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Hey, now,” Micky interrupted, “I’m the one who does the wacky theorizing around here!”

“It’d be a heck of a party trick,” Mike added.

Micky blinked. “It wouldn’t freak you guys out?”

“No more out than we’re already freaky,” Peter said, then looked as if he were reconsidering how he’d phrased that.

Micky looked down and dug into the deck planking with his toes. “Maybe in a while,” he mused. “Right now, I’m really glad to have my feet back.”

“Sure,” Davy said brightly. “I can wait a few weeks for you to get me the maenads’ phone numbers.”

Micky blinked at him, unbelieving, then lowered his head and gently butted Davy in the chest.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by several scenes in _Head_ , especially the end of the "Circle Sky" concert where the screaming fans tear the boys' dummies apart; the "[Look In The Mirror](http://sotcaa.org/head/head_changes04.html)" deleted scene, in particular Micky's section; and (to a lesser extent) Euripides's _The Bacchai_ , from which the title is taken.


End file.
